Strange Attractors
by True Miang
Summary: Postgame. If a man dreaming he is a butterfly – or a butterfly dreaming he is a man – flutters his wings in Athlum, will a hurricane strike Undelwalt and wipe it from existence?


**Strange Attractors**

_i._

In the aftermath of battle in the Sacred Lands, David moves on autopilot. Through vision blurred by unshed tears, dust and dirt kicked up in the scrum, and shimmering particles of what used to be the Conqueror's broken and bleeding body before they began winking out of existence – the Conqueror, and other things David is not yet ready to contemplate – he catches a reflection off a ruddy green discoloration half-buried in the rubble. Absently, he reaches for it as he passes, hand tightening around the familiar weight of a once-bright crystal pendant for a moment before he releases it into a pocket, already forgotten in the press to leave Elysion's wreckage.

(A lifetime away, Rush opens his eyes to the darkness.)

_ii._

For Rush, who had almost supernatural perception, sensory deprivation provokes immediate alarm. He should feel his pulse racing, his heartbeat pounding a terrified staccato, but he _doesn't_, doesn't feel anything at all, and his panic escalates, thoughts racing through his mind faster than he can grab hold and fully process them. _Breathe_, he tries to tell himself; then, unsure if lungs are really a thing here, _scratch that. Think._ He knows his eyes are open because he can feel himself blink; the quality of the darkness is tangibly different behind his eyelids. He compulsively flexes the fingers on both hands and is relieved to have the feedback of his muscles, or at least the memory of their motions. He raises his arms only to pat himself down, feeling the rough topography of laces, leather, and cloth that defines his battle armor; shrugging briefly, he nods at the resistance corresponding to his shoulder guard. "Two down," he says aloud, experimentally. His voice is hoarse and his lips are dry and cracked, and there are no acoustics to speak of: the sound filters off into oblivion, and Rush, daunted, falls silent again. Wherever he is, he is incredibly far away from anything or anyone else. A cautious sniff and delicate poke of his tongue fail to reveal any more compelling information. Satisfied that his senses are in relatively good working order, he nods again and takes a tentative step, then another, footsteps ringing in his ears.

(As his entourage makes haste for Athlum, David eats little and sleeps less; what rest he does take, when so compelled by his generals, is fitful and dreamless, dogged by the cacophony of their encampment and still-tender memories that disturb his shallow slumber. When he rouses, he wakes with aching muscles and a name on his lips.)

_iii._

Between travel, politics, and the quieting of an anxious nation, nearly a week passes before David thinks of the pendant again. He is all but certain Rush's own disappeared with him; by logical deduction, the one he clutches now, dangling just so to catch and refract the waning afternoon light, must surely be Irina's, snapped and lost in their final assault or the bitter events that followed. He briefly contemplates returning it, or at least asking her about its provenance; she is stronger than she lets on, and he wonders whose voice will falter first, whose mask will crumple. _Eulam is far,_ he thinks, _and there is still much to be done._ In a first and final act of selfishness, he instead slips the pendant around his own neck, patting the dull crystal gently where it settles against his collarbone.

(From the darkness there is light: incandescence and warmth between one blink and the next that seem to emanate from Rush himself though he thinks for a crazed moment this can't possibly be so.)

_iv._

The light is small and faint at first, but it pulses and recedes like the surge of blood and breath, growing minutely stronger each time until the illumination encompasses a small but serviceable area centered on Rush. He can make out the shapes of structures, now, rectangular prisms of varying heights and volumes as far into the distance as he can see. There is no floor to speak of, only narrow crevices in between the pillars that vanish into unknown depths, and what passes for the sky in this place is equally lightless, a pitch-dark canvas stretching infinitely above his meager glow. He has no idea how he has managed to avoid injuring himself thus far, between the possibilities for stumbling over cracks in what passes for the ground, scraping sensitive flesh on a clipped corner, or flat-out bludgeoning himself to unconsciousness or death by walking headfirst into an unseen wall. The light is steady now, warm and soothing, but he shivers.

"Hey, enough of that; now I can figure out where I'm going," Rush admonishes himself, but his ears have grown accustomed to the silence and he cringes at the volume of his own voice. Distantly, he remembers vague warnings about the perils of talking to oneself. " 'm not crazy," he mumbles, eyes narrowing as he inspects a ridge of relatively flat ground flanked by taller structures leading toward the distance. It seems as sensible a path as any, and he sets off, already growing more cheerful in response to the recent improvements in his environment.

(Emmy surreptitiously slides her mother's flask into David's hand, out of the range of Torgal's watchful eyes; when the Marquis raises an eyebrow in question, she mutters, "Your pacing is keeping the castle awake," and strides out of the room before he can call her on the fib. His sleep is still dreamless but deeper now, and this time he mouths Rush's name not as he wakes with the sunrise but before he succumbs to his fatigue, lips forming soundless prayers against the frost-bound night.)

_v._

It goes like this:

Another month in, one of the dignitaries at court will throw David a sidelong look and heavily intimate that in light of the burgeoning peace, it might just be time for the young lord to consider his familial obligations. David will freeze where he stands before regaining his composure and waving the suggestion off with a laugh and a smooth transition to the newly proposed tax policies, but in that moment between implication and recovery everyone will have heard the rumble of far-off thunder promising storms at eventide.

Rush will decide that singing with no one around is acceptably less symptomatic of mental degradation than conversation would be. He will measure his travels in the meters of increasingly bawdy pub songs, forgetting that he has no ear for music and couldn't carry a tune regardless of how many swords he's wielding. David will complain of an ever-present buzzing noise and ask Blocter to investigate a potential insect infestation; Blocter, growing restless in the absence of politically motivated battle, will be only too happy to comply.

David will exchange his family cloak for one of red and black in a formal ceremony to mark Athlum's independence, delayed these many weeks by the Remnant war and a suitable period after for mourning and recovery. Rush will turn around one day and notice Athlum's flag trailing behind him, wondering how he could ever have forgotten it was supposed to be there in the first place.

Rush will lean against one of the omnipresent columns in a rare moment of exhaustion, closing his eyes against his own light and permitting his mind's eye to brush aside David's bangs in a gentle touch of fingertips to forehead, to trace the elegant arch of a brow, the aristocratic nose, the sculpted cheekbones identifying him unmistakably as of noble blood. David will break off his explanation so abruptly and stare into the middle distance so vacantly that Pagus will be halfway through a rejuvenation spell before David comes to, murmuring something about gentle summer breezes. It will be incomprehensible to anyone present, as Blocter will have met the earlier insect patrol with his usual aplomb and taken the opportunity to shore up the castle's defenses against any possible breach or draft; and anyway, they will be only a scant few weeks shy of winter.

David will dream he is a butterfly, and will beat his wings wildly against the atmosphere with all the power at his command; Rush will be a maelstrom whirling across the unforgiving distance, a living promise of destruction to anything between him and his destination.

And so on.

_vi._

It ends on the battlefield, as it began. Following the disappearance of the core Remnants, monster attacks against even the most well-developed cities had been growing more frequent, more fierce, and, of greatest concern to David, better coordinated. Half a year after the Remnant War, David responds to a monster sighting himself; the prey is said to be enormous, powerful and multitudinous, and David is eager to shake off the rust and put his sword arm to use in defense of his people. Over the protests of his generals, into whose care he readily trusts his fledgling nation, he solicits the assistance of only a few unions of Athlumian soldiers. What is this massing of beasts to the army that braved the seven paths of Siebenbur, to the army that defied the Conqueror and emerged victorious?

By the time he realizes his mistake, the orders have been given and his men have taken up their assigned posts with the efficiency and purpose befitting their stations. It is a well-practiced maneuver, which only adds to the costliness of the error: so accustomed are they to the preparatory drills for deployment of the Gae Bolg, none think to question whether the formation would still suffice in its absence. And indeed, they are too far apart; even if a recall order could be issued over the din of the stampeding creatures, they could never close ranks and reassemble in time. David allows himself a quiet sigh even as his mind whirls in calculation, measuring the number of the enemy and their unnatural speed. He reconsiders and discards his union's options in rapid succession, _invocation evocation combat_, gripping the pendant through his shirtfront as he steels himself against the onslaught already mowing down the enlisted men.

For a second he thinks he feels it pulse back, counterpoint to his thrumming heartbeat in the adrenaline surge of impending death, and the idea makes his eyes go wide and his cheeks flush bright with color. He can feel the coarse fur of the great dun creatures brushing past, their breath hot and humid as they snort and stamp around him.

(And suddenly a great fissure rends the sky that is his ground and Rush looks on in wonder and horror as his platforms dissolve and the battlefield's rolling plains appear through the aperture. The monsters are surrounding David, and the energy that cascades off of Rush in viridian waves is part anger and part longing and all desperate fear.)

The surviving combatants have the sense to fall back toward David, and the various arts they rain down on the writhing mass of monsters encircling him are insufficient for dealing substantial damage to the thick-skinned creatures but tolerably effective at distracting them. David spies the leader unit towering above the common fiends in the distance, intrigued, approaching; if Death comes for him this day, he knows it will be by the gleaming blue-green tusks of this magnificent and brutal being, tall and sharp as the Valeria Heart when it spanned the heavens in protection of them all. _There now, just a little farther, _he wills the beast. _I will show you what I am made of._

The gigantic monster lowers its head and charges; David concentrates, replaying every memory of crisis he can access until he practically feels Rush alive in his skin, Remnant energy singing through his veins –

( – Rush wants to shut his eyes against the carnage but he can't look away, so he focuses on David at the center of the chaos and remembers with all his heart, hand coming up to close around the crystal at his throat as he forces the feeling of his conjuration through his body, pulls at the energy until it crackles around him and then shoves it _down_ and _out_ and hopes like hell it'll form up – )

– and David feels his weight, comfortable and familiar around his shoulders, before he sees him, before he even finishes speaking the words, but the crystalline dome of the protection barrier settles and holds and the huge piercing tusks bounce harmlessly off. His grin is radiant and terrifying as he turns in Rush's arms, flinging his sword up to split and rain devastation on pack and leader alike, and although his voice is steady as he instructs the surviving soldiers to take down their colossal enemy, his hands tremble with the force as he bunches them in the back of Rush's jacket.

(And later there will be time for what was and what is and what might yet be, the geometric Remnant dimension and all that may still be lost and waiting there, but for now they are so close they can share a breath with no regard whatsoever for its effects on distal weather patterns or Royotia's economy. It is enough.)

* * *

A/N: Written for the 'areyougame' community on Dreamwidth. Prompt: _The Last Remnant, David/Rush, Life after death - finding my way back to him somehow._


End file.
